Coronation
by bobbirose
Summary: It's summer-1953-in London, and everyone has their eyes on the upcoming Queen Elizabeth II as she gets ready for her coronation. With everyone focused on Queen and Country, maybe four unlikely teenagers can finally find another person that have their eyes somewhere else.
1. Instant Attraction

**A/N: Thiiiiiiis is crazy. This is a dream of mine, writing this. I hope I can do it, and I'm also hoping I'm accurate. The inspiration for this: The Idiot's Lantern (Doctor Who, S2). Setting and all-John, Sherlock and Molly's apartment complex is exactly the one occupied by The Connelleys (spell check!).  
Hope you like! Hope it's accurate.  
The high school they go to-Brookfield Academy-may or may not exist but certainly doesn't in London and probably not 1953 London either. I made it up, for all intents and purposes.**

**Songs: Kick Drum Heart by The Avett Brothers and We Might Be Dead by Tomorrow by SoKo**

* * *

_May 20, 1953  
John_

John Watson vividly remembers eating eggs as yellow as his school uniform when he first heard about the Holmes.

"John, have you met our new neighbors yet?"

John looked up from his eggs, surprised. Since when did they have new neighbors?

He could tell by his mother's tone, however, that she had already met them. She was not fishing for information; she was much more insistent when she was. What she was doing now was the classic Holly Watson way of turning a question into a direction. He hated it almost as much as he hated the color of his school uniform.

John sighed and leaned back, taking the bait like he always did. "No."

She pounced immediately, a triumphant smile on her lips as she swiveled around, her stiff floral apron unmoving and her usually tired eyes bright. "They have a boy about your age who just transferred to your school. I thought it would be nice of you to walk him there this morning."

John tried to fight back the urge to smile as a hopeful thrill shot through him.

"What's his name?"

His mother pursed her lips, the red lipstick scrunching up with the movement. "I can't seem to remember…it was something funny, mind you, so be nice about it when you find out. But that goes without saying, I hope…" she trailed off, glancing to her left and seeing the mint green clock on the kitchen wall. "Hurry, John, or you two will be late."

John's heart rate quickened as he quickly finished his eggs and hurried up the stairs to brush his teeth, wondering all the while about the boy he was about to accompany to school.

As a closeted gay 15 year old, John's quiet and protected nature tended to alienate a lot of people. His friend group consisted of his 13 year old (also gay) sister Harriet ("Harry" to John) and his best mate Mike, who knew nothing of his sexuality but noted with increasing consistency the amount of girls John didn't proposition. Harry was the only person in the world who did know, and as casual and mellow as Mike tended to be, John had no idea what his potential reaction would be like.

Because with his discovery came fear, a fear that replaced curiosity. And this new life, living with this new discovery was something he couldn't and wouldn't change, but he missed the ease of his old life, and his old friends, especially Mary—apparently because she had grown breasts over the summer their five-year friendship had to end; running around covered in dirt until bedtime was replaced by giggles with girlfriends in the hallway, her mother's makeup on her face and her hair done up carefully, glancing shyly at John between classes.

"I just want to get _married_, John!" she had said dreamily, touching her ring finger absently before her face turned serious again. "If…" she took a deep breath and the next sentence came out rather rushed, but practiced. "If nothing's going to happen then I can't waste my time."

And so ended their easy and playful friendship, because obviously nothing _was_ going to happen. The same thing occurred with Sarah and Vanessa, and it seemed like all the mothers in London were ready to swoop their daughters away from boys like John and put them in front of boys who would give them the time of day. It seemed the time had come for carefree and gender neutral childhood to transform into womanhood and with womanhood came certain expectations.

It made John sad, really, to see Mary and Sarah and Vanessa being talked up to in the hallway by boys with misleading Penny Loafers and carefully combed hair, hungry eyes roving over their uniformed bodies, and his former playmates loving and hating every second of it. It made him miss his old life, and made him rather hate this new one.

Because new was scary, and, yes, John was afraid.

But new was also wonderful, because new meant _possible_.

And, yes, John was very optimistic.

* * *

_May 20, 1953_  
_Sherlock_

"There is a boy next door named John Watson. He is fifteen years old, and, like you, is attending Brookfield Academy. You will walk with him to school this morning."

Sherlock vividly remembers not wanting to walk John Watson to school. He huffed out a breath, tightening his grip on his fork. His brother must have seen the flash of anger across his face over his newspaper. He set the papers down and sighed at his younger brother, who was looking sourly at his yellow eggs. They were the color of his new uniform. Sherlock hated eggs.

"Really, Sherlock, you have to get over your fear of people if you're going to go anywhere in this world." Mycroft said disapprovingly, and Sherlock barked out a laugh in response, pushing his eggs away emphatically.

"I think you've got that backwards, brother of mine." Sherlock stood rather abruptly, the chair legs scraping the linoleum in protest. He grabbed his new school bag and pulled his new school sweater over his new white undershirt, stalking to their new front door. He paused, hand on the new shiny doorknob. "But what's one more person that hates me?" he called over his shoulder sardonically, before flinging the door open and walking out into the fresh morning.

He closed the door absently behind him, scanning around for any sign of this John Watson.

"Come out and play, Johnny Boy," he murmured, eyes now fixed on the rising sun.

* * *

_May 20, 1953_  
_John_

"He's waiting for you, John, hurry!" his mother called up the stairs.

"Shit," John muttered to himself, and then louder: "Coming!"

Bounding downstairs, he grabbed his school bag and kissed his mother's powdered cheek.

"Be good, John!" she called after him as he hurried out the door, like she always did.

"I will," he shouted with practiced melody as the door swung shut. As the sound slammed through the peace and the haze of the early morning, John noticed a tall figure wearing bright yellow look up in his direction. John meekly raised his hand in greeting, and figure nodded lazily in recognition. John ambled up to the boy and got a good look at him for the first time.

His shock of dark curls was the first thing John noticed. The color was in stark contrast to the alabaster of his skin and the unruliness to the harsh loveliness of his features and especially the piercing verdigris of his hawk-like eyes. Okay, so maybe John noticed his entire face. The boy was _gorgeous_, and John rather thought he belonged on a movie screen and not standing outside in front of a dull (but respectable!) London apartment complex.

"Hi," John said shyly, a small smile on his lips. The boy's eyes widened for a fraction of a second before narrowing into cool indifference again. John cleared his throat and tried again, extending his hand for the boy to shake. "I'm John-John Watson," he informed, the smile remaining on his face, refusing to go away.

"I know," the boy said quickly, almost harshly. John laughed at the absurdity of it, withdrawing his hand and sticking it back in his pockets when it was obvious it would not be shaken. The boy looked thrown.

"You laughed," he noted, his eyes abandoning their nonchalant pretense and surveying John intensely.

"Uh, yeah, I did. It was funny," John offered, seeing that the boy seemed to need further explanation.

The boy blinked and suddenly flashed John a dizzying smile, true and special.

John felt a blush creeping up his face and quickly glanced at the sun, now risen.

"If you try and blame your blush on the heat of the morning, you know I won't believe you."

It took a minute for John to fully process what his new neighbor had just said. He blinked and stared, and finally said: "Who are you?"

The boy's eyes became dark with amusement and one corner of his cupid's bow mouth twisted up into an alluring smile.

"Sherlock Holmes. I'm your new neighbor. Now, aren't we supposed to be getting to school?"

"Yes," John replied immediately, shaking his head a fraction to clear it. "This way, then." He started to walk up the main road, but Sherlock sighed.

"What?"

"Dull."

"_Dull__?"_

Sherlock smirked at John's incredulous tone.

"I know a way that's much more interesting. Care to follow me, John Watson?"

John didn't move, just stared as Sherlock moved around him, never breaking eye contact and ambling towards the row of flats opposite them.

Sherlock walked until he was in the middle of the street, and John glanced uneasily around him.

They stared at each other. John was vaguely aware he was going to be late for school.

"I know many things about both you and the world, John. I've known you for five minutes, and already know all about you." Sherlock called out to John, chin up and hands in his pockets, the small smile he had never faltering. He drew out the word "all", and what should have irritated John just intrigued-_fascinated-_him.

"I've known the world for 15 years. How much do you think I can show you?" he titled his head. "Coming?"

John swallowed. "Oh, god, yes."

* * *

_May 20, 1953_  
_Sherlock_

Sherlock grinned in triumph as John bounded across the street towards him, his school bag bouncing against his back as he ran. He caught up to Sherlock, flushed and breathless, as the taller boy looked down at his new...neighbor.

John Watson was one of the most unassuming boys Sherlock had ever seen, really: typical sandy blonde haircut, strained relationship with his mother, football star, academic prowess and all-around golden boy.

But then he had laughed.

And he was laughing now.

"I hope," he breathed, between giggles, "that this doesn't turn out to be the most ridiculous thing I've ever done."

Sherlock let out a laugh, and looked John directly in the eyes, watching the shorter boy's breath catch and his eyes widen.

"I hope that it does."

John's lips parted slightly, and Sherlock's smile widened, his eyes darkening again. They were the color, now, of a sky after a storm. John didn't know how it was possible to have eyes like that, so dark and humored and lively and _wanting_, but he was looking at them. What John didn't realize was that the storm hadn't passed yet.

He was just right in the middle of it.

The world was swirling and crashing and storming around Sherlock where it only rotated around normally for other people, and it was so infuriating when no one else _noticed_ it. No one cared about anything as long as their world continued turning. He didn't know if anyone else saw the storm or if they just ignored it, but now he stared down at John and realized that John could see the storm too.

It wasn't surrounding him like it was Sherlock, it was always off in the distance, taunting him. He was forced to stand on steady earth and look at Sherlock's storm, always wanting to be in the eye of it.

And now he was.

* * *

**We're walking in to the fields**  
** We're walking in to the forest**  
** The moon is before us**  
** Up above**  
** We're holding hands in the rain**  
** Saying words like I love you**  
**Do you love me? **

** My heart like a kick drum**  
** My love like a voice**

* * *

_May 20, 1953  
John_

"So...you _do_ know where the school is, yeah?" John asked, as Sherlock led him through random streets and back alleys. He was increasingly aware of the fact that the bell rang in ten minutes, and John didn't want to be held responsible for Sherlock being late on his first day.

"I know so much, John, I'm offended you had to ask."

"Is the school's location one of them?"

"John." Sherlock came to a stop in front of a brick building that John had never seen before, making sure he had John's attention before grabbing his arm and leading him around to the back. John stumbled along, heart starting to pound as Sherlock started his monologue:

"I know you have an emotionally detached father and a mother obsessed with her role as a housewife but not so much her role as a mother. I know you have a sister Harriet you're close with, very close-close enough she's one of the only people you trust with the secret of your sexuality-gay-perhaps because she is too." Sherlock looked at him sideways, and John's head whipped up to meet his gaze. "I know where the school is."

John stopped.

"But we're not going to school," he started, head reeling with questions and amazement.

"Nope," Sherlock rocked back on his heels and grinned at John, lips popping on the "p".

There was a beat of silence as John drew his breath and began with his first question.

"How...how did you know...about..." he cleared his throat, starting again. "How did you know I'm gay?"

Sherlock smirked and strolled up to John. "You didn't seem confused by the fact that you found me attractive."

"Okay," John said slowly. "How did you know-"

"You blushed when I smiled at you. Your pupils were dilated, and you were staring at my eyes quite a bit." Those same eyes now roamed over John's body.

They were so close now.

"Instant attraction," he finished, bringing his eyes back up to John's.

John let out a breath, not realizing he'd been holding it in.

He may not have much practice with this, but he can guess what he was supposed to do next.

Feigning confidence and drawing himself up, he stared unblinkingly at Sherlock.

"Instant attraction. Okay," he said. "So what are you gonna do about it?"

"Make you late for school," Sherlock murmured, before gripping John's waist and pulling him in for a searing kiss.

John gasped at the contact and his hands flew up to Sherlock's chest as Sherlock deepened the kiss. After a few seconds of slightly awkward mouth work, Sherlock pulled back and rested his forehead against John's, breathing hard.

"Have you ever kissed anyone before?" he asked, looking into John's eyes again.

John flushed. "...no."

"I'll teach you, then." Sherlock resolved, and drew John even tighter to him. He brought John's arms up to his shoulders and wound his own arms around John's waist, but concentrating most of his efforts into the kiss itself. He showed John how to kiss with tongue as they both leaned up against the building for support, John leaning against Sherlock's body and Sherlock's arms never leaving John. He showed John where to put his hands as things got heated and he showed John how to get his bright yellow school issued jumper dirty when it's cast off of him and into a back alleyway.

Sherlock teaches John to kiss instead of walking him to school.

"Why me?" John asks at some point.

"You laughed," Sherlock responds.

"Why now?"

Sherlock looks around a bit, a small smile on his lips before he answers.

"'Cause soon enough we'll die," he says finally, and John kisses him again.

* * *

**Give me all your love now**  
** 'Cause for all we know**  
** We might be dead by tomorrow**

**So let's love fully**  
** And let's love loud**  
** Let's love now**  
** 'Cause soon enough we'll die**

* * *

**There's nothing like finding gold**  
** within the rocks hard and cold**  
** I'm so surprised to find more**  
** Always surprised to find more**

** I won't look back anymore**  
** I left the people that do**  
** It's not the chase that I love**  
** It's me following you**

* * *

******'Cause soon enough we'll die**.


	2. Sunshine

_May 20, 1953_  
_Greg_

Gregory Lestrade sat on the front steps of his house, turning his football over and over in his hands. He was thinking about The Queen's Coronation.

He thought about Her Majesty and all the preparation, all the pomp and circumstance, all of the _care _that went into this event, this crowning.

It didn't matter, really, did it? The Queen was still the bloody Queen at the end of the day.

Greg wondered whether or not she cared at all about the lonely sixteen year old turning a football over and over in his hands, sitting outside, waiting to stall his father when he got home because his mother had burned dinner.

"Just talk to him for a bit, alright, Greg?" she had asked, holding the burned casserole in her hands, eyes wide with fear and smile strained and urgent, as she nodded vigorously at her son to make his way outside.

What his father would do to his mother if he come home and found dinner uncooked, Greg didn't like to think.

The fights had started getting bad when Greg was eleven. He started getting ushered out of the house when he was thirteen and he had started seeing his mother's bruises last year. Greg had asked her, then, if he was worth it.

"Your father?" she had whispered fearfully.

"No. Me." he had replied, holding a bag of ice to her shoulder as she had folded laundry.

When she had heard that, she had dropped the clothing back onto the bed and swooped him up in a tight and warm hug.

He clung to her as well, still trying to hold the ice to her arm.

"Oh, Gregory," she had whispered, closing her eyes so that her lashes fluttered shut against her son's neck. "You are worth a thousand angry men. You're my son."

And so he sat and waited for his father on the dusty steps of his London suburban home, waiting to feed him a bullshit story about football, which would lead him to a lengthy and aggressive rant on Captain Watson or how Gregory's footwork needs to be cleaner and how the whole team is corrupted or whatever would catch his fancy. He could hear the worried click of his mother's short heels through the thin wooden door as she bustled around the kitchen, trying to make a decent casserole for the most terrifying man on earth in her pearls and apron_._

* * *

_May 20, 1953_  
_Molly_

There wasn't a single damned thing to eat this the whole damned apartment.

Molly Hooper sighed in frustration, her french braids shaking slightly as her breath huffed out.

"Why can't the food just..._be there_?" she whined to no one in particular.

Her eyes roamed over the nearly-bare pantry to find the reliable cans of typical tomato soup in the back of the shelves, saved only for a last resort.

The sight of them made her stomach turn.

"DAD!" she called over her shoulder, grabbing a metal tin. "DINNER!"

* * *

_May 20, 1953  
Greg_

"DINNER?" Mr. Lestrade thundered, grabbing the feeble undercooked casserole from Greg's mother's hands. She yelped as he sent it crashing to the ground.

"Dad!" Greg shouted.

"HUSH, boy!"

Greg looked to his mother, who nodded tightly.

He fell silent.

Stooping, Greg's father grabbed a handful of pasta, still mildly raw and with all the extra casserole still cold.

_"This isn't cooked," _he crooned, his voice taunting, sarcastic, deadly and soft.

"I-I'm sorry-"

"IF IT'S NOT COOKED, IT'S NOT DINNER!"

A glob of food went soaring for a foot before it splattered all over Greg's mother's dress, her face and her neck. She flinched and gasped, tears welling up in her eyes.

Greg stood, but his father noticed no change in his position.

"YOU SAID YOU HAD DINNER READY, LISA! YOU LIED TO ME!"

"I-" his mother gasped out.

"I AM TALKING!"

Greg moved before he thought of anything; as soon as he saw his father's hand snap back and his mother cry out and cower, he bolted in between the two and his father's hand came across his face with a resounding smack.

"Gregory!" his mother cried, grabbing her son's arms as he staggered back into her. His father froze in shock, staring at his son, before a purple rage overtook him. He roared with fury and charged forward, his blow hitting Greg in the stomach. His mother screamed.

One in the face and Greg decided to fight back.

Lip bleeding, he threw himself at his father, who shoved him away before grabbing his arm again, wrenching his son towards his body hard enough to make his sixteen year old yelp in pain. Yelling in satisfaction, his father threw another punch that clipped Greg's eye, and he retaliated with a kick to the shin, which made his father mercifully release his arm.

They both stood there panting, facing each other, red.

His mother took her chance and rushed up to Greg, white in the face.

She threw her arms around him, silent tears streaming down her face. Gripping him firmly, she whispered in his ear, "Go. To Nanna's. I'll come soon."

One more glance towards his father, already gearing up for round two, and he bolted.

He bolted, and he hated himself for it.

* * *

_May 20, 1953_  
_Molly_

Molly watched her father eat from inside of the kitchen. She had taken one look at the final product of dinner and decided she'd pass on it, but her dad had grabbed the bowl mindlessly from the counter and had started eating. By the distant look on her father's face, she could tell his mind was still on his typewriter in his bedroom, working on the future bestseller (but _not _the one about the boy and his dog, the other one). Molly let out quiet sigh as she watched him, his expression desperate and full of hope and wonder.

"Molly," he said suddenly, seemingly snapping out of his trance.

"Yes?" she replied, surprised.

"Do you know Franklin Miller?"

Molly blinked. "Not really..."

"He called this morning. Wanted to take you to the theater, some play is on he thought you'd might find interesting."

Molly held absolutely no interest for theater. "What?" she asked blankly, getting a cold feeling in the pit of her stomach.

"Come on, sweetheart, you should go with him."

"Maybe," she replied carefully, careful not to give any definitive answers.

Even her 'maybe' was too assuring, because her father looked up and grinned.

"That's my girl," he said, relieved and somewhat proud. Molly's mouth went dry as she forced a small smile onto her face.

"Don't you want to protect your little girl from harm?" she joked desperately.

Her dad laughed. "Well, maybe Frank can do that for me, and I can focus on other things!"

_Ah._

He hadn't meant for it to hurt, but Molly felt like she'd been slapped. The oxygen all rushed out of her and she grasped the counter in panic.

"Molly Miller," her father continued, a good-natured smile still on his face. "It's nice, don't you think?"

_That's it._

Molly ran from the kitchen and flew out the door, her dad's bewildered "Molly!" following her as tears sprang to her eyes. She ran to the end of the block and slowed, head clearing and breath labored. She sniffed and lifted a hand to wipe her eyes, once more glad she didn't wear makeup to smear around.

Makeup had no place in her life.

Molly was a feminist.

Well, perhaps not. The definition of feminism was blurred, was it not? Molly was whatever it was that didn't scramble for a bridal magazine at age 15-sure, she appreciated the white lace and the whole fuss of the ordeal-but the idea of a ring being forced on her finger was one she shied away from (was that really all it took to be a feminist? The aversion to marrying off?). Being the only person in her family with both feet and head on the surface of the earth (her father always seemed to be 100 feet above and her mother was six feet under), Molly was forced to take the roles of both her mother and father. She looked after her father, the only man she had room for in her life.

Honestly, she didn't want the burden of her father either. Not that she didn't love him (she absolutely did), but it was hard playing caretaker for a 40 year old man. Especially when Molly had her own impossible dreams of her own to accomplish.

Studying medicine as a woman was laughable. Going to college for it was pointless, and getting a job as anything other than a nurse was impossible. Especially in a morgue-possibly the most inappropriate place for a lady that there was (but then again, Molly didn't exactly see what was so decidedly masculine about it all, either).

The idea of marriage, or settling down, or even a boyfriend was something Molly couldn't even consider, had been terrified of considering. To her, a man to sweep her away to reasonable mortgages and lovely rotten children could only stand in her way. It was going to be hard enough getting what she wanted out of life.

_Molly Miller._

She wondered what Frank would think about her career ambitions. Huffing out a bitter laugh, she starting ambling down the street.

_"So, Frank-I would really love to cut up dead people instead of cook for you and our children."_

That should do it.

Her feet carried her to Chester's Park, where she found the area reasonably devoid of people, save for a sulking teenage boy on one of the benches and a grandmother pushing a grandson on a swing, the child's shrieks occasionally piercing the air. Her gaze fell to the teenage boy on the bench. She moved closer, still across the park from him. She could only see part of his face, because of the setting sun and the way his dark shaggy hair fell in front of it.

Upon further observation, it became more apparent that this boy wasn't simply 'sulking'-he seemed distraught, or heartbroken. And scared.

Slightly alarmed, Molly made her way a bit more quickly to him to make sure everything was relatively okay. She noticed his posture, how he was leaning with elbows jammed into his knees, hands dangling slightly helplessly and head bowed down. As she drew closer, she noticed his baggy clothes and their dark or dreary colors-no attempt at any sort of posh exterior. Despite his state, Molly could tell he felt most at ease in them. They didn't fit, not nearly-but they hung on his body easily and comfortably, as if they wouldn't fit anyone really so this was best case scenario.

Molly liked him.

She finally reached the bench, and the boy didn't glance up until she sat down beside him. When he lifted his head to look at her, she smiled meekly, worry etched in her eyes.

"Hey," he croaked out a bit awkwardly, managing a flash of a smile before the haunted look came back in his eyes.

Bruises were blossoming under his eyes and cuts were decorating his cheekbones, already rough tanned skin made worse by the new colors splashed across his face. His eyes were red and swollen from crying and he made no attempt at hiding it.

Helpless.

"Hello," she responded cautiously, tucking a strand of hair away from her face as it fell in front of her face. "Are you alright?"

The boy blinked. "No," he said. "But that's alright, isn't it?" he sighed, taking his face in his hands.

"Of course it is," Molly said, scooting a bit closer. "Everyone gets upset."

The boy nodded slowly, mind somewhere else.

"But you're hurt," she continued, leaning in slightly to try and get a better look at his injuries.

The boy grimaced. "Everyone gets hurt."

Molly raised an arm and patted him on the shoulder, just out of instinct. He jumped at the touch, and looked at her with suddenly wild eyes. Her hand stilled, but she didn't withdraw it. She met his stare with a calm gaze, a gentle smile on her lips. "I have medical things at my house if you need them...it's not far from here, just down the block, actually."

He shook his head. "My gran's coming to get me in a mo,"

"To take you back home?" she asked.

He fell silent and grew still, and her arm wound around his shoulders, scooting closer so their thighs were touching.

"Sorry," she whispered her apology, realizing the source of his wounds.

"Can-" he shut his eyes and a few teardrops squeezed out of his eyes and down his face. He winced as the salt stung his cuts, and Molly's face folded in sympathy.

"Yes," she continued to whisper, not sure what she was agreeing to but willing to do anything to make this poor creature better.

He sniffed and cleared his throat, and Molly tightened her hold on his shoulders. He leaned carefully against her and rested his head on her shoulder, letting out a slow breath.

"I'm Molly," she offered, making him laugh.

"Greg," he responded, still smiling.

They sat there in silence, waiting for his gran to come.

She was reminded of the times before her mother's death when she'd be hurt, or sad, or scared up at night. Her mother would sing to her, and although the song didn't replace a bandage, it reminded her that someone was there.

And then she'd died, leaving Molly hurt, sad and scared, and more than a little lost. Her dad was still lost. She was at least trying to find her way back.

It had been ages since she'd heard the song at all. She vaguely wondered if Greg had ever been sung to.

She started quietly, gently, never picking up volume.

"_You are my sunshine  
My only sunshine  
You make me happy  
When skies are grey_  
_You'll never know, dear, how much I love you."_

Greg slowly lifted his head up to stare at Molly in slight amazement as she finished the last line, holding a steady gaze.

"_Please don't take my sunshine away._"

Greg was smiling, his eyes bright and vulnerable and overwhelmingly emotional, the kid was a mess.

Molly liked him.


	3. Yin and Yang and Frank Sinatra

_May 20, 1953  
Sherlock_

Neither John nor Sherlock went to school that day.

When Sherlock did finally retreat back to his own house-_apartment_, now, _whatever_-it was almost time for dinner.

The door slammed behind him and he walked into the narrow hallway, spotting Mycroft in the living room reading the newspaper for the second time that day. His brother's back was turned, and Sherlock wondered if he could just get to his room unnoticed and in peace.

Unlikely, but perhaps-

"How was school?"

Damn.

Sherlock smirked and didn't answer, instead throwing his shoulders back and tilting his chin up, as if he were offering himself up as some sort of sacrifice.

When he didn't receive a response from his little brother, Mycroft set his paper and turned around to observe Sherlock. Almost immediately, his eyes widened in shock and then closed, an exasperated sigh falling from his mouth as he covered his face with his hands. A little bubble of hysterical giggles rose in Sherlock's throat at the sight of it, but he managed to swallow it down.

"Dear _Lord_, Sherlock!"

"Oh, I'm certainly not He."

Mycroft considered him with a resigned expression, before sighing again and picking his paper back up.

"At least I don't have to worry about you getting along with him."

* * *

_May 20, 1953_  
_John_

John lay in his bed, surrounded by the comforting darkness that always settled over him like a blanket, assuring peace, devoid of thought.

Usually.

Tonight, however, he felt more smothered by the night, his thoughts straining to get out of his mind but constricted by the black blanket that enveloped him.

John couldn't really even bring himself to form a general attitude or opinion of that day, even as he lay there, completely undisturbed.

Obviously, he had fun. A lot of fun. More fun than he'd had in years, really, if ever.

But John was scared. He had no clue what the fuck today even _was_. Where he wanted to go from here, where _Sherlock_ wanted to go.

Hell, Sherlock could have absolutely no interest in him by now! The thought made John's head momentarily flatline and his stomach flip unpleasantly.

Well, okay, that answered the question of John's personal wishes.

He sighed and covered his face with his hands, letting out a soft groan as he did so. He was so lonely, he really was. And he liked Sherlock. Enjoyed to be around him. Enjoyed his conversation, or at least John thought he did-they didn't exactly do much talking.

But even if Sherlock declared his affection for John-the boy scoffed at the thought-it's not like that would be a happy ending all in itself. That would introduce an entire new world of trouble; the homophobia of their society would never allow anything public between them.

Turning over onto his side, John forced his eyes shut and told himself that he'd think more on it in the morning when it wasn't all so_...fresh_.

A shiver ran down his spine as certain memories flashed into his mind, filling him with desire again and putting him more or less back to square one.

And square one, it seemed, was waiting for him too.

There was a soft knocking on his door, making John sit up in confusion. Glancing at the clock on his bedside table, he swung his legs over his bed and went to open his door. He couldn't come up with any reason as to why his mother would be up at this hour, and Harry was spending the night at a friend's. A small knot of worry growing in his stomach, he crossed the room and opened the door.

_"Sherlock!"_ John hissed in astonishment, as he took in the sight of his tall and mysterious new neighbor standing in his doorway, grinning like the devil.

"Lovely evening, wouldn't you say, John?" he wasn't whispering, but his voice was deep and soft and probably more effective than a whisper at discrepancy.

"Sherlock, it's 11:30 at night."

"Really, John? I hadn't noticed."

John rolled his eyes at Sherlock's sarcasm.

"Come on," Sherlock said suddenly, his eyes going dark and his head tilting downwards, his madman grin shrinking to a seductive smile, his fingers curling around John's wrist.

John's brain blurred and he blinked, shaking his head slightly.

"Wh-h-how did you get in?"

Sherlock shrugged and held up a hairpin.

John's lips parted in alarm, his eyes widening a bit. He let out a breath.

"Well, I'm glad London's such a safe town," he whispered sardonically, and Sherlock laughed a little in response.

"Come on," he repeated, a bit more urgently.

"Where?"

"I don't know."

They stared at each other, John looking with wonder at Sherlock's excited expression and dark eyes, feeling his fingers on his risk and not wanting to face his empty thoughts and constricting blackness anymore.

"Okay," John breathed.

* * *

**If you come down to my window**  
** And I climb out my window**  
** Then we'll get out of reach**

**Then you**  
**Swept me away**  
**Yeah you  
Swept me away**

* * *

The pair of them exited John's apartment easily enough; his mother slept like the dead and John's father was away on a business trip. They took their time after their initial excitement fueled departure, strolling down the main road before lazily turning a corner. John laughed suddenly, looking around them.

"What?" Sherlock asked.

"This is the way to school," John remarked, smiling at the familiar path.

"Told you I could get there. Also, you never did get to walk me to school."

"I think we're a bit late," John joked, and Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Can you give me a tour, then?"

"Absolutely." John grinned again, unable to help himself.

"Enjoying yourself?"

"Absolutely."

"Tired?"

"Sherlock, enough questions. I'm fine. This beats sleeping, any day."

Sherlock smiled, even though he knew that in the dark of the night John wouldn't be able to see it.

They walked on in silence for a while, neither of them really feeling the need to talk.

However, as they rounded a corner and the trees on the side of the street began to thin, John spoke up.

"We're almost there, where do you want to go first?"

"The...arts building."

John blinked, surprised, but wordlessly guided Sherlock onto campus and towards the Fine Arts building.

As the walked across the lower fields, John noted warily the lights on in some of the rooms on the top floor of a building to their left.

"Do the teachers live here?" Sherlock asked suddenly, eyes also on the teacher's dorms.

John shrugged. "Only the sad ones."

They walked on.

* * *

_May 21 (12:10 am), 1953  
Sherlock_

A violin began to play through an open window, the dim light from the lamp on the table near the window streaming onto the fields below. John and Sherlock were well below visibility, so they sat down in the grass for a while. The song soon morphed from an obscure classical one to a much more well known melody; Sherlock groaned quietly while John brightened up, smiling and singing the corresponding words softly.

_"Strangers in the niiiight," _he sang, smiling a bit wider at the appropriateness of the lyrics.

"Really, John? God, I should have known you'd be a Sinatra fan." Sherlock complained, frowning in distaste and lying on his back.

"Oi, don't knock Sinatra! His voice is..." John shook his head in amazement, both at the apparent quality of the singer and at the sight of Sherlock sprawled out next to him on the grass, exuding condescension from his very pores.

"Derivative. He aims only to please the masses."

John suddenly let his body fall to the grass below, flipping over on his side and grinning at Sherlock.

"What?" Sherlock asked warily, leaning back slightly.

_"Straaaangers in the night," _John crooned, his eyes falling closed in mock drama.

"Oh, god."

"_Exchanging glances, wandering in the niiight,__"_

"Please, John," Sherlock groaned, covering his ears.

_"What were the chances we'd be sharing looooove,"_

"This is hell."

"_Before the night was THROOOOOOUGH!"_

Sherlock's eyes widened as John flung himself onto Sherlock's body, arms flying out flamboyantly and hitting Sherlock in the nose.

"_Ouch,_ John!"

"_STRANGERS IN THE NIGHT_"

John leaped up and grabbed Sherlock's hand, hoisting him up off of the grass.

"What do I have to do to make this stop?"

"_TWO LONELY PEOPLE, WE WERE STRANGERS IN THE NIGHT_"

And then they were dancing, John forcing Sherlock's arms up and practically falling into him with an exaggerated step forward, making Sherlock laugh and stumble backwards. He caught John around the middle, stepping back into him and they fell into actual dance steps, Sherlock trying to teach John how to _move his damn feet_ correctly. Before he knew it, he was dancing with John and singing along, moving happily along the grass.

"_Ever since that night, we've been together  
Lovers at first sight, in love forever..."_

They both stopped dancing, hands dropping and breath caught.

"Do you remember the rest?" John asked, a bit sheepishly.

Sherlock let out a little laugh, shaking his head.

They sat down, still faintly grinning, John leaning against Sherlock.

"Oh," John said suddenly.

"What?"

_"It turned out so right," _John sang quietly, almost to himself.

_"For strangers in the night," _finished Sherlock, a satisfied smile on his lips.

John turned slowly to face Sherlock, his arms winding around Sherlock's shoulders. Sherlock's hands slid down to his waist, pulling him a little closer. John leaned in and kissed him, slowly and languidly. Sherlock's hand came up to cup John's jaw, while John's arms tightened.

Sherlock leaned forward a little more, pressing more of his weight into the kiss. Soon he was up in a sitting position, and John had little choice other than to straddle him. His head bowed a bit to reach Sherlock's lips, and found them again with more fever.

"_John_," Sherlock breathed, as the smaller blonde pushed him back down into the grass.

He was about to tell John they should probably do this somewhere else when John did something frankly amazing with his tongue and all thoughts of relocation were driven from Sherlock's mind.

After all, the lower fields behind the teacher's dorms were as good a place as any, right?

* * *

_May 21, 1953_  
John

"Dear god," John finally gasped as he collapsed, exhausted, onto Sherlock's torso.

"You might just kill me, John Watson." remarked a similarly breathless Sherlock, his arms coming up to embrace John.

John laughed.

"You'll kill me first," he replied, twisting his neck up to grin at Sherlock.

The taller boy grinned back.

"Perhaps."

They sat in silence for a while, just listening to the sounds of the night with a careful ear out for anyone threatening to disturb their peace. When John did finally speak again, it was with a light and thoughtful tone.

"It's probably a good thing you don't like Frank Sinatra, you know," he remarked.

"What prompts you to say that?"

"Well, it's like...the balance of opposites, you know?"

"What are you talking about, John?"

John heaved himself off of Sherlock's body and rolled onto the grass.

"I love the bloke, you hate him. Yin and Yang, that whole thing."

Sherlock laughed. "I must confess that without you I probably couldn't have made the connection between Frank Sinatra and ancient Chinese philosophy."

"You're welcome."

Sherlock smiled and folded his arms under his head. "I play the violin too, you know," he said quietly, looking up at the stars with his wide, surveying eyes.

"You do?" asked John incredulously, turning his head to look at Sherlock.

The brunette nodded slowly. "I don't even like violin music."

John laughed. "Then why the violin?"

A sigh came from beside him. "Because my brother wanted me to play the piano."

John giggled, but ultimately didn't say anything for a while. He wanted to tell Sherlock how much he liked the sound of a violin, but he wanted to make sure Sherlock knew he meant it. He didn't really know why the authenticity was so important, but he was trying to avoid the role of the lovesick girl ready to say anything to get her boy to like her.

"How many different instruments make up a standard orchestra, Sherlock?"

"Typically? 23."

"Right. Well. 23 instruments and out of all of them the violin is my favorite." John stated determinedly, hearing the rustle of grass as Sherlock turned to look at him.

"Really?"

"Really."

* * *

**A/N: So I'm really hoping the orchestra thing is correct-I verified my answer on so, you know, probably room for error.  
The songs featured in this chapter:  
Swept Away by The Avett Brothers  
and obviously  
Strangers in the Night by (you guessed it) Frank Sinatra.  
Hope you enjoyed! I know this is shorter and it took my super long to update but...yeah. Sorry!  
Lestrolly next chapter!**


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